‘Oh.’ Awad looks surprised. ‘Santini was her boyfriend? Like… lover?’
‘Yes, I assume so.’
‘Here in Australia?’
‘Yes. They were involved with environmental groups over here and I’m hoping that someone may know where she is.’
‘As far as I know, Burning Rage hasn’t been active in Australia. In fact I’m not aware of it being active in the States anymore either. But I have heard of Luke Santini. What has he told you?’
‘Nothing—he died last December, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh really. How come?’
‘He was killed by a bomb.’
‘Oh, boy…This isn’t my current research area, but maybe I should do some work on it. Well, Burning Rage was a group that believed in direct action—violent action—to achieve environmental aims. Their method was to target influential individuals in the fossil fuels industries—oil executives, coalmine owners, shale gas company executives, that kind of thing. Their speciality was blowing up or burning down their vacation homes in wilderness areas. They hit the headlines in 2006 when they blew up a holiday mansion in the Catskills belonging to the chairman of an Appalachian strip mining company. Unfortunately, his wife and two small children and a maid were in the place at the time. Overnight Burning Rage became notorious. People called them the Green Baader-Meinhof and the FBI started a major manhunt.
‘Turned out there were three ringleaders—one was shot dead by the cops, one was brought to trial and sentenced to ninety-nine years, and the third disappeared. His name was Sol Fleischer, a native of New York and most probably the architect of the Catskills bombing. The FBI widened the search for associates, one of whom was Fleischer’s lover, an Australian citizen by the name of Luke Santini.’
‘Fleischer was male?’
‘Right. Santini was questioned at length by the Feds, but in the end they let him go. Fleischer was never found—some said he’d gone to Canada, or Mexico, or Europe. Nobody really knew.’
‘Could he have come here, with Santini?’
‘Anything’s possible. It’d be very interesting if he did.’
‘Anything else you can remember about Fleischer?’
Awad ponders. ‘I’ll take another look at my old research… I remember there was a rumour that he was HIV positive, and needed medication. Who knows if it was true.’ He checks his watch. ‘Look, I have to go, but I’ll give you my contact details and let you know if I find out anything else.’
19
Harry walks down Broadway towards Central station and finds an internet café full of backpackers. He takes the last free computer and spends an hour checking websites, making notes, downloading a picture of Sol Fleischer, which he forwards to Bob with a query asking if it would be possible to identify this man. When he’s finished he gets cash from an ATM and catches a bus out to Petersham, where he walks to Ricsi’s backstreet shoe repair shop, making sure he isn’t being followed.
As usual Ricsi says little, leading Harry into the little room behind the counter. His complexion looks greyer than usual, his feet shuffling, and Harry asks if he’s okay.
‘Just getting old, mate. Thinking about getting out of the business. Better get what you need from me while there’s time.’
Harry settles for half a dozen untraceable phones and a pistol. All Ricsi has is a small Smith & Wesson J-Frame and Harry takes it and a box of .38 Special rounds.
‘Where can I get a cheap used car around here, Ricsi?’
Ricsi gives him the name of a local yard where he picks out a ten-year-old Subaru and heads out of the city, north and west, until the suburban streets give way to paddocks, small farms and stands of gum. He stops to check the maps he printed off at the internet café and turns off the main road onto deserted unsealed back lanes. It feels good to be out doing something, almost like being back on the force but without the regulations and report-writing.
He comes at last to a sign nailed to a tree in a grove of sad-looking ironbarks: Doggylands Dog Breeders, Boarding Kennels—K. McVea proprietor. The sign has been decorated with bullet holes. In the distance he can hear the howling of dogs. He turns onto a rutted track, the howling turning into frenzied barking as the dogs hear his approach. Chain-link fenced pens appear on either side. He sees greyhounds, pit bulls, staffies, racing back and forth.
He comes to a stop in a rough yard. To one side is a large agricultural shed from which the sound of a radio is just audible over the barking. On the other side sits a timber house with verandas beneath an ancient pepper tree, its branches drooping onto the rust-streaked tin roof.
As Harry gets out of his car a figure emerges from the shed, a big, heavily built man in a check shirt, muddy jeans and boots, red beard, head shaved except for a long pigtail down his back, carrying a shovel.
‘Yes, mate. After a pup?’
‘I’m after Mrs McVea. She around?’
‘Who’s askin’?’
‘Tell her Harry Belltree would like a word.’
The man turns towards the house and bellows, ‘MUM!’ Then, to Harry, ‘Tell her y’self.’
While they wait Harry points at the only dog in the pens that isn’t running around, a spaniel sitting on its haunches in the mud, quivering. Its long hair is matted with dirt and faeces and one ear appears to be torn. ‘What’s wrong with that one?’
‘Nuthin’. She’s boardin’ for three months, havin’ a great time.’
Harry peers through the wire at it. Its eyes are staring blankly, as if from shell-shock.
There’s a screech as the screen door at the front of the house opens and a woman in a motorised wheelchair trundles out onto the ramp. ‘Whassa matter, Gavin?’
She stares at Harry as he walks over and climbs the veranda steps, followed closely by Gavin.
‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m Harry Belltree, Kylie. I’d like a word.’
‘You’ve got a fuckin’ nerve. Gavin, call Khalil. Tell him to bring his shottie.’
Gavin pulls out his phone.
Harry says, ‘Just a quiet word, Kylie. I want you to stop threatening my wife.’
‘Want what you like. She killed my brother. She hit ’im with a fuckin’ axe. She’s gotta pay, bigtime.’
‘Your brother was going to kill me—that’s why Jenny had to hit him. He’d just killed her aunty and he was about to kill me. She had no choice.’
‘He was my brother! He looked after me when I was a little ’un, when no one else did. He protected me!’
‘It was him put you in that wheelchair, Kylie. You know what sort of man he was.’
A ute is skidding to a stop in the yard, and another man, heavily developed shoulders and arms covered in tats, gets out of the cabin with a shotgun in his hand.
Kylie roars, ‘I know what sort of man you are, Belltree, a fuckin’ trumped-up abbo, that’s what you are. And your Jenny’s a stuck-up abbo-lovin’ bitch and she’s goin’ to pay. Khalil! You and Gavin kick this piece of shit off our property.’
Harry raises his hands. ‘Take it easy, Kylie.’
Khalil is advancing towards him with shotgun raised, an angry scowl on his face. ‘Git away from the lady.’
Harry turns back to Kylie. ‘Your brother killed my mother and father, but now he’s dead. I have no quarrel with you. It’s time to move on. It’s over, okay?’
Kylie leans forward and hisses, ‘It’s not over till I feed Jenny and her baby abbo brat to my dogs, matey. Now piss off.’
‘You hurt either of them and you and your boys are dead, Kylie. I mean it.’
Harry turns to leave, and as he goes Gavin McVea feels impelled to step forward and punch Harry on the arm. ‘Piss off, abbo.’
Harry hits him twice, two quick thumps to his soft belly. As he topples backwards into Khalil, Harry grabs the gun and keeps walking towards his car, Kylie shouting after him, ‘You’ll regret that, you abbo bastard. I’ve got friends, big friends. You’ll see.’
Harry unloads the gun and throws it in
to the pen with the quivering dog. ‘I’d learn to shoot if I were you, mate,’ he says.
20
Kelly is typing up a story about a new government report on the ice epidemic, making heavy weather of it, when a call comes in from Brad in Vanuatu.
‘I’ve put out a few feelers, Kelly, but it may take time. There was one mention of Maturiki in the Vanuatu Daily Post here recently might interest you. Fishermen in the waters between Pentecost and Maturiki brought up some human remains in their nets. Looks like a shark attack, and some of the people up there have claimed it’s the work of a shark sorcerer.’
‘A what?’
‘There’s an old belief in what they call nakaimos, sorcerers who can turn themselves into sharks and go hunting for swimmers.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, few years back three men up there were actually arrested and charged by police for a series of fatal shark attacks. The charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.’
‘Do they know who the victim was?’
‘I’m looking into it. I’ll get back to you.’
Kelly thanks him and rings off. She is thinking that the most likely candidate for shark sorcerer that she knows is Karen Schaefer, the woman who brought Amber back from Maturiki. And thinking of Karen Schaefer, she remembers that she knows where she and her husband Craig were living ten months ago, before they took off in such a hurry to Vanuatu. Is she back there now? And is it possible that Amber didn’t disappear at the airport as Karen has told everyone, but is now being held by the Schaefers? She picks up her phone again and rings Harry’s Blackphone number, but it goes straight to messages. She leaves one, asking him to call her, then grabs her bag and tells Hannah that she’s going out for a while.
She drives out to Riverside Park at Strathfield, where she saw the Schaefers last December. From here she followed them back to their house, a small suburban villa somewhere not far away. She tries now to retrace that route, and soon becomes uncertain. This is unfamiliar territory, and the streets all look much the same to her. She wishes she’d made a note of their address, but at the time everything developed in a rush.
Eventually she comes to a street on a shallow incline that seems familiar, and a house that might be the one. Previously the Schaefers left their little green car in the narrow driveway, but there’s no car there now. She parks and walks over to the house, still uncertain. The last time she raided their garbage for information, and she wonders about trying that again—assuming it’s the right house. She takes a deep breath and tries the front doorbell. Chimes echo faintly inside. No one answers. She goes to the front window and peers in, cupping her eyes to see into the dark interior.
‘Excuse me, can I help you?’
Kelly spins around. A young woman is staring at her. She’s dressed smartly, a bag slung over her shoulder, looking as if she’s returning from work.
‘Oh, I, er, I’m not sure if I’ve got the right house. I was looking for a couple called Schaefer, and I thought they lived here.’
‘The Schaefers, yes. They were the last tenants here, before me. I never met them, but I know the name. You’re a friend of theirs?’
‘Yes, I was hoping to catch up with them. You don’t have a forwarding address, do you?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I suppose the rental agency will. Actually, if you’re going to see them you could do me a favour. I’ve got odd bits of mail that have come in for them.’
‘Fine, yes, I’ll take care of that.’
So Kelly waits while the woman goes inside and fetches a plastic bag full of mail and gives her details of the rental agency.
‘I don’t think there’s anything important, but I didn’t like to throw it away, and I didn’t have their address to forward it.’
Kelly drives to the rental agency, but they have no new address for the Schaefers. She returns to the Times offices and takes her loot up to her desk, begins to go through it. Most of it is advertising circulars, giving an uninformative picture of the Schaefers’ purchasing history. There’s a reminder for an appointment for Craig Schaefer at an eye clinic and several monthly statements for their road e-tag account, all zero.
Disappointed, she looks through the items again. One of the leaflets makes her pause, from a kennels out in western Sydney. Did the Schaefers have a dog? And the name, McVea, rings a bell. Wasn’t that the name of Frank Capp’s half-sister, who caused so much fuss at the Ash Island inquest, threatening Jenny Belltree?
Kelly checks the kennels’ website and confirms the name, Kylie McVea. Then she looks more closely at the leaflet. On the back, next to the map for locating the place, is a handwritten note: Saturday 14th, 8:00 pm. The Schaefers left in a hurry for Vanuatu on the fourth of December, a Wednesday. The fourteenth, ten days later, was a Saturday. What goes on at a kennels at 8:00 pm on a Saturday night? And what’s the connection between Kylie McVea and the Schaefers?
21
The transformation is astonishing, disorienting. Standing on one of the perimeter streets, Harry works out that the multistorey car park over there is built directly on the site of the Crows’ bikie compound. Beside it a broad flight of steps leads up to an elevated piazza burgeoning with palm trees, fountains, cafés and restaurants buzzing with activity. One side of the square is flanked by a vertical garden of lush plants climbing twenty metres up the side of a building within which a department store and fifty shop units are being fitted out. In the background cranes are working on the concrete frames of apartment towers rising into the evening sky.
Harry finds a free table and orders two glasses of wine. He waits, watching children clustered around a juggler and a pair of human statues, and thinks of the horrors buried beneath their feet. And he thinks of Kylie McVea. He gets out his phone and calls Nicole.
‘Hi, Harry, how are you?’
‘Good. How’s Abigail?’
‘Oh, she’s fine. The girls are with her at the moment.’
‘I’d like to ask a favour, Nicole. I wondered if I could sleep over at your place for a few nights, just to keep an eye on things.’
‘An eye on things? Is there a problem? We’re quite capable—’
‘Of course, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s just, with Jenny away I feel responsible. I’d like to keep an eye on the baby.’
‘Well…yes, of course. I’ll make up the bed in the spare room.’
‘There’s a bed in Abigail’s room, isn’t there? I’d like to sleep there, if it’s okay.’
Across the square Bob Marshall emerges from the car park entrance and strides towards him. He’s changed out of his uniform, in shirtsleeves on the warm spring evening, and looks like any other big, amiable bloke approaching retirement age. Except perhaps for the way his eyes take in the people he passes, assessing, recording.
‘I’ll see you later then. Thanks, Nicole.’
‘Harry. Got the first round in, I see.’ Bob settles himself, takes a sip. ‘Amazing, isn’t it? Seems to have sprung out of the ground in no time. Chinese construction company, apparently. So, tell me about James Zuckermann.’
‘Who?’
Bob gives him a quizzical look. ‘You don’t know the name?’ He takes a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and slides it across to Harry. It’s a photocopy of a New South Wales drivers licence. The face is that of Sol Fleischer.
Harry nods. ‘That’s him. How did you find him?’
‘They’re trialling a new facial recognition system to pick up speeding drivers. That’s the story anyway. Bloody good. Not a hundred per cent of course, but bloody good. Thing is, Zuckermann has no police record…’
‘So?’
‘…or tax file number, or Medicare number. Apart from this drivers licence, obtained eight years ago, there appears to be no record of him. There was a James Zuckermann born on the same day in Queensland, thirty-seven years ago, but he died of SIDS at seven months.’ Bob stabs a thick finger at the piece of paper. ‘This James Zuckermann is a ghost. So, what do you know about him?’
Harry says, ‘The picture I sent you was of an American citizen called Sol Fleischer, wanted by the FBI on multiple murder charges.’ He tells Ramsey Awad’s story. ‘He was the lover of Luke Santini, who died on Ash Island, remember? And who was the boyfriend of Amber Nordlund, who was badly burned trying to rescue him.’
‘And you’re looking for Amber.’ Bob takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. ‘Jeez, Harry, you always had a nose for trouble, didn’t you?’
‘And I’m looking for Amber because she may know what’s happened to Jenny.’
‘Yes, Jenny…Seems they’ve got a picture from the ATM in Darwin. Female, baseball cap, big dark glasses. Might be her, might not. They reckon probably not.’
He takes another sheet of paper from his pocket. Harry unfolds it and stares at the image, and a chill grips his heart.
‘No, it’s not her. It’s somebody else with her credit card.’
‘They’re trying to track the woman with CCTV images. It’ll take time.’
‘I’ve been trying to prepare myself, Bob. For when they find her body.’
‘We’re not there yet, mate. Not by a long shot. You know what I think? Sooner or later she’s going to run out of cash and hope and she’s going to ask herself who’s the one person on earth can help her. And then she’s going to try to contact you.’
Harry shakes his head. ‘If she’s still alive…She’s stubborn, Bob. Told me to get out of her life.’
‘Post-traumatic shock, mate. That’s all.’ He drains his glass and waves the waiter over. ‘I’m not driving, so I’ll have another. How about you?’
‘The five rules of road safety. Caught the train.’
‘Good. Let’s get a bottle and a pizza. Yes, the five rules. I must say it’s comforted me a little, stuck out there, to watch them in homicide chasing their tails over this Slaughter Park business. You should see the emails, Harry, the messages from the commissioner, the police minister—blind panic. And they haven’t got a clue.’
Slaughter Park Page 7
